


The Lost Dream

by dislegomena



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-14
Updated: 2006-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:41:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29034102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dislegomena/pseuds/dislegomena
Summary: Connor is not some cryptic prophecy written in ancient, dead demon languages. Connor is a normal baby boy who is going to grow up to do something extraordinary: Angel hasn't decided what yet. He's torn between 'inventor' and 'hockey prodigy.'
Relationships: Angel (BtVS)/Cordelia Chase





	The Lost Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a livejournal Angel ficathon in 2003 or so; posted to ff.net in 2006

The last time Angel went anywhere fancy to eat, it was celebrating Cordelia's national commercial with her, Wesley, and Gunn. A memorable occasion. He knows it was only about a year ago but it feels like a lifetime ago.

This time it is just him, Cordy, and his infant son, Connor. The Macaroni Grill is just about the nicest place he feels he can risk taking a baby, especially a happy, shouty one who loves attention.

Connor is currently charming the teenage girls at the table next to them, and Angel smiles at his son. Connor is the best thing that has ever happened to Angel, and the list of things that have ever happened to Angel does include meeting Buffy Summers, and Cordelia Chase.

If Buffy started him on the path to redemption, and Cordelia helped him along it, Connor is the tangible proof that redemption really is at the end of the road. Connor is not some cryptic prophecy written in ancient, dead demon languages. Connor is a normal baby boy who is going to grow up to do something extraordinary -- Angel hasn't decided what yet. He's torn between "inventor" and "hockey prodigy."

Angel takes Connor to the pediatrician, usually with Cordy tagging along and carrying the diaper bag, every month like clockwork. At two-hundred forty-eight years of age, Angel's a little old to be a first-time dad, and Angel is utterly terrified that one of these days he's going to do something to Connor that will stunt all his dreams for him. The pediatrician weighs Connor, measures him, and shows Angel that he's fine, he's just where he should be on the growth charts, he's doing all the things he should.

She laughs it off every time Angel tells her that Connor is a miracle. She says all babies are miracles.

She's never noticed that Angel doesn't reflect in the glass covering the picture on her wall, some big-eyed toddler playing on a beach.

Angel doesn't reflect in the mirror on the wall behind his and Cordy's table, either, but the restaurant's full enough he doesn't think anyone can tell.

The teenage girls' plates arrive, and the one that was playing with Connor coos a bye-bye at him and starts eating. Connor squawks loudly at the sudden decrease in attention. Cordy catches Angel's eye, smiles at him, and fishes a toy out of the diaper bag for Connor. It's something soft, stuffed, and brightly colored, just like all the websites recommend. Angel, whose baby-rearing wisdom is two centuries out of date, has chosen to put his faith when it comes to baby-raising tips in the Internet. Cordy reports that all the pop-up advertisements she gets when she surfs for information about their cases are baby-related.

Connor stuffs the toy in his mouth and begins chewing on it, spreading drool all over his face.

"I think he's teething again," Angel says, studying his son.

"You think?" Cordy says, also studying Connor, and scrunching up her face just a little like she's thinking. "He's already got his incisors. They came in last month. It's a little early to be teething again."

"Nothing is too early for him, huh, champ?" Angel says, about equally to Cordy and the baby. Connor kicks his feet and bounces up and down in his chair. Angel gets a better glimpse of the toy and for the first time realizes it's a tropical fish, a toy Angel doesn't remember buying. Maybe one of the others did; he knows Gunn and Fred are always coming home with little things for Connor.

Cordy sips at her water, makes a face, and grabs Angel's iced tea. "You using the lemon?"

"Help yourself," he says.

She fishes the lemon out with a spoon and drops it into her glass with a little splash.

"Something wrong?" he asks.

"Tastes a little funny. Like circus clowns, you know? A little funny, but mostly just odd."

Angel half-smiles at that and thinks that only Cordy could compare water to circus clowns. Well, Fred might, he amends to himself, but she'd do it in more words. He knows he should probably say something in response to that, but he can't quite think of anything. He's still a novice at this dating thing, particularly this dating thing with Cordy. Dates with Buffy were groping sessions in graveyards, awkward drinks at the Bronze, usually surrounded by her friends, or later, after she killed him, just quiet chats at the mansion.

He and Cordy aren't even officially dating yet, haven't said those magical words "boyfriend and girlfriend." Angel is terrified of going too fast or too far and waking up one day to find that his happiness has passed the dictionary definition of "perfect." Not for the first time he muses that fools rush in where Angel fears to tread.

The moment is saved from getting too long by a server bustling up with their food and setting plates down before them with a quick warning to him about the dish being hot. Angel ordered penne arrabbiata, as it's the only thing on the menu with a taste strong enough for him to detect, even if the garlic gives him heartburn that is actually his insides scorching slightly. Cordy ordered a salad, something green and leafy with lots of ingredients that weren't considered "salad" in Angel's day.

Connor, being a baby, didn't order anything, but Angel packed zwiebacks so Connor can chew on something. He gingerly takes the fish toy, now sopping in baby drool, and trades Connor a biscuit. Connor grins at him and eagerly starts gnawing on the zwieback.

Cordy carries the conversation over dinner and into dessert, mainly holding forth on the newest girl ingenue to hit the Hollywood scene, discussing her talent, or lack of it, as Cordy feels. Cordy complains, good-naturedly, that she could so be better than that chick, and unspoken is the clause _except for the fact that I decided to stay with you_. Angel pretends he knows who she is talking about; he's never heard of her, but Cordelia is used to this.

At one point he looks around and notices that every diner at every table around him has ordered a seafood dish, he can tell by the smell. He comments on this to Cordy, who looks puzzled and asks what he's talking about.

They attempt to linger over Cordy's tiramisu, enjoying being out away from the hotel, but the waitress starts giving them the skunk eye after about fifteen minutes, so Angel pulls out his wallet. Before leaving, he gulps down some of Cordy's water to try to dilute the burning in his stomach. The off taste she mentioned is strong enough even he can detect it: salt water. "Is that what your water tasted like? Salt water?" he asks Cordy.

She shakes her head. "Just a little minerally. Probably tap water. Ugh."

Angel wipes the drool off Connor, who smiles brightly at the attention, and then hoists his son over his shoulder. Cordy, diaper bag over one shoulder and purse strap over the other, leads the way out of the restaurant. Connor squeals one last goodbye and then falls silent. Angel checks his watch -- eight o'clock. Late enough for Connor to be getting tired, and sure enough, he falls asleep in his car seat on the way back to the hotel. Angel gingerly carries him inside and drops him in his crib, under his Uncle Lorne's watchful eye.

The rest of the night is now theirs, Angel and Cordy, and after some brief discussion about where they want to go, they settle on Point Dume. Since the day they met there two months ago, it has become their special spot. Here they're most comfortable with each other.

They sit in the car with the top down in the parking lot for a while, watching the surf. Angel gauges the tide to be going out instead of coming in, and suggests that they move down to the shore. They almost always end up on the shore, standing as often as sitting, until Cordelia gets too wet and starts complaining. The moisture has never bothered Angel.

Out near the horizon, foreshortened because the sea and the sky are near the same color, a tugboat moves across the water.

They clamber down the rocks and find a spot above the waterline and fairly free of seaweed. It takes them a few minutes to restart conversation, talking quietly to match the oddly quiet ocean. Tonight they talk about the future: the agency's future, Connor's future, their future together. Angel has dreams for all three and shares bits of them with Cordelia.

She looks over to the cliffs during a lull in the conversation, points, and asks, "I can't see who that is. You have vampire eyes. Who is that?"

Angel squints and sees only a teenage boy, shaggy-haired and badly-dressed. The face is familiar, but a quick rummage through two-hundred fifty years' worth of faces produces no immediate name. "Just a kid," he says to Cordelia.

She turns back to him, frowning slightly. He runs a hand along the side of her face and she smiles at him. He leans in and kisses her, being a distraction.

He loves her so much, he can feel the weight of it pressing all around him.

"Cordy, I --" he begins, and then stops, nerve failing slightly. He's never told her he loves her; those words don't come easily to him. He feels he needs to now, feels like he'll never have another chance to.

"Yes, Angel?" she asks, watching him.

"I --" he begins again, and then stops in alarm. The shaggy-haired boy Cordy spotted on the rocks only a few minutes ago is here beside them now, a sneer on his face. The boy wrenches Cordy up by her arm, causing her to cry out.

Angel leaps up and drops into a fighting stance. "I don't know who you are or what you want with her, but you can't have her," he says to the kid.

"Oh, really," the boy says. In a move almost as quick as any Angel could make, he throws Cordy across the beach. She lands by the rocks, too far a distance for a normal human boy to toss a grown woman, and doesn't get up.

"Come on, now, Dad," the boy continues, tauntingly. Angel notices he is wearing a wrist-mounted stake launcher. "You should know by now you don't get her. You don't get anything. You don't _deserve_ anything. Not after what you've taken from everyone."

He paces slightly, restless. "Connor," Angel says, and that is all he can manage. He remembers now this teenager, the angry grown version of the bundle of dreams a well-intentioned friend stole from him.

"Connor," Angel says again, but Connor's face contorts in rage. Bringing his arm up so that the stake launcher is pointed at Angel, he fires. Normally, Angel would be able to dodge, but this time he cannot, can only watch as the stake flies toward him in slow motion --

Just before it would impact, Angel wakes up, reflexively screaming even though he has been underwater so long he has no air left to make screams with. This box around him is also a dream, he thinks. Holtz's dream, far less pleasant than the ones he keeps having, and far more permanent.


End file.
